I raised the pistol. The custom grip fit my hand like it was part of my body. The sights lined up perfectly. Two taps. Headshots guaranteed the target stayed down.
The suppressed rounds made soft coughs—not silent, but quiet enough they wouldn't carry far in an industrial area where ambient noise from distant traffic and wind through broken structures created constant background sound.
He crumpled without making a noise beyond the soft thump of his body hitting concrete. Even the clatter of the gun was muffled.
"South entrance clear," I reported, stepping over the body. "Moving inside."
The door wasn't locked. Didn't even have a working handle. I pushed it open with my shoulder and slipped into the darkness beyond.
Compared to some of my hardest ops—the ones in Ramadi and Manilla that had pushed me to the absolute edge of what I thought I could survive—this was a cakewalk.
These weren't trained operators. They weren't soldiers or even particularly competent mercenaries. They were thugs playing at being dangerous, relying on intimidation and numbers instead of actual skill.
The interior was exactly what I expected. Open floor plan. Rusted machinery pushed against walls like forgotten dinosaurs. Broken office furniture scattered around—chairs with three legs, desks with missing drawers, filing cabinets tipped on their sides with papers spilling out like guts.
Concrete floors. Metal catwalks overhead. Plenty of cover if you knew how to use it.
But these idiots didn't.
I moved through the shadows, footsteps silent. The pistol felt like an extension of my arm. Natural. Instinctive.
Two more targets presented themselves—both armed, both completely unprepared for someone who actually knew what they were doing.
Four rounds. Two bodies.
"Second floor clear on my end," I reported. "Three hostiles down."
"Third floor clear," Ellsworth replied. "Two more eliminated. No sign of primary target."
Shit.
We'd cleared most of the building and Merrick still hadn't shown. Either he wasn't here—which would be a massive tactical failure on our part—or he was holed up somewhere we hadn't checked yet.
We converged on the second floor near what used to be the foreman's office, meeting where the overhead lights had been stripped out, leaving only darkness and faint glow from broken windows.
Ellsworth looked completely unruffled. Not a hair out of place. His suit—because, of course, he'd worn a suit under his jacket—still looked pressed. The only indication he'd been working was the slight sheen on his forehead and the pistol in his hand.
"He's not here," I said, frustration bleeding into my voice despite my best efforts to stay professional.
"Perhaps," Ellsworth replied, measured. "But there's one area we haven't checked yet."
He nodded toward the far end of the floor. A reinforced door. The only door in the entire building that looked recently installed. New lock. New hinges. Heavy steel frame that would stop anything short of a battering ram.
The kind of door you installed when you wanted privacy. When you wanted to feel safe.
When you had something to hide.
We approached in unison, movements synchronized without needing discussion. Years of operating in teams had taught both of us the same tactical vocabulary that transcended words.
I stacked up on the right. Ellsworth took the left.
I counted down with my fingers. Three. Two. One.
We breached together.
The door wasn't locked—overconfidence or laziness, probably both—and we flowed through like water, pistols up, scanning for threats.
Two men inside. Both armed with holstered handguns. Both reaching when we entered.
